


The Bar is Terrible--No, the Other One

by happybeans



Series: Bar is Terrible verse [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (yeah we switched up the timeline. Keep scrollin), Comedy, Little bit of College era in the middle there, M/M, Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 19:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20533403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happybeans/pseuds/happybeans
Summary: Foggy goes to the bar for a drink but, oh boy, does he find so much more:"Matt. Matt Murdock, grown man lawyer, part-time illegal, brooding vigilante, is wearing a sparkly purple shirt with the top three buttons undone.Is sitting in this bar attached like a koala bear to a Much Older Man, oh my god is that gray hair? Matt. Can’t your super-senses tell you that this man is at least fifty? Can’t you, like—smell the wrinkles and erectile dysfunction? Oh my—"---------------------In which Foggy pines over Matt while sleuthing out exactly why Matt would do himself like this.





	The Bar is Terrible--No, the Other One

**Author's Note:**

> Of all the WIPS I thought I'd finish, I did not expect this one to come in for the swoop. But, hey, why not? Featuring one of my all-time favorite tropes: vigilante undercover as themself.  
Thanks for reading. Enjoy!
> 
> PS: there's vague mentions of daddy issues in here at one point. If that phrase or topic makes you uncomfortable, consider reading a different work instead. Thanks!

Uh...hum. Okay.

Okay, how’s this? Let’s just take this moment—all of it, literally every little piece of it—and let’s file it away. In the back of the filing cabinet. Unlabelled. Then we can buy a new filing cabinet and put the old one to an early death at the bottom of the Hudson, forget this whole incident, and call it a day. 

This would not be an exaggerated response. Honestly. That’s just exactly how not ready Foggy is to process this moment.

“Uhhh…”

He rubs his eyes with his fists, because maybe this is some kind of illusion or mirage or something. Maybe he’s drunk off of alcohol fumes; he’s never been to this place before today, he just—he wanted a drink, okay? And he’s always passed by this place on his way home from work, so. So excuse him for wanting a little variety, okay?! Maybe instead of drinking cheap beer on his couch alone, he wanted to drink overpriced cheap beer in some shithole bar. Sue him.

But, nope. He removes his hands and blinks once—twice—and this—this _ whatever _ he’s seeing doesn’t go away, doesn’t shift or change into something he’s any bit more able to understand.

Ohhh, he is way too sober for this.

“Matt,” he mumbles. “Matt. Matty.” 

The bar is packed like presents on Christmas, tables overflowing and every seat snagged so that most are just standing around, stepping on each other’s feet. Foggy himself honestly thought he’d have to duel somebody in the streets for a stool at the bar. 

But God or the all-forgiving Universe or whatever saw fit to give him the ultimate cosmic hookup, because it’s just as he walked in that one lonely-looking gentleman decided to take his leave, and Foggy slid onto that stool basically the second that stranger’s butt left it. 

And then that’s when he realized that maybe this wasn’t his good karma gift from Buddha: because, pretending that the seat wasn’t super warm from that stranger’s butt and possibly farts, Foggy raised his head to seek out the bartender, but hoh boy did he find so much more.

Matt. Matt Murdock, grown man lawyer, part-time illegal, brooding vigilante, is wearing a sparkly purple shirt with the top three buttons undone. 

Is sitting in this bar attached like a koala bear to a Much Older Man, oh my god is that gray hair? Matt. This man is old enough to be your father. Oh my god. Matt. Can’t your super-senses tell you that this man is at least fifty? Can’t you, like—smell the wrinkles and erectile dysfunction? Oh my—

“Hey, what can I get for ya?’

Foggy’s gaping mouth shuts with a clack, and his lips purse together for a second before he pushes a smile onto his face.

“Oh yeah, thanks,” he says then proceeds to buy a glass of the bar’s second cheapest beer.

The bartender walks away to the tap, so Foggy goes back to blatantly staring, blatantly gaping like a fish. 

Matt’s not-dad puts his mouth all up-close to Matt’s ear, and he must whisper something because after a second Matt tilts his head back and laughs, and the cheerful sound carries halfway across the bar to where Foggy’s blatantly trying not to throw up in his mouth.

The bartender sets a tall glass down in front of him, and Foggy gives him a tight-lipped smile in thanks before chugging a solid third of the beer. 

Sucking in a breath through his teeth, the bartender says, “Ooh, it’s that kind of night. I get it.”

He looks over his shoulder, surveying the bar, then turns back to Foggy. He leans forward on his elbows on the space in front of Foggy. 

“Anything you wanna get off your chest, handsome?”

So it’s a gay bar. Sue him.

He’s pretty sure the bartender—Antonin, his name-tag reads—is just schmoozing him for tips (which Foggy was already planning to leave, thank you), and really, Foggy’s not interested in anyone anyways (okay, mostly anyone, not that _ that _ matters anymore, what with Matt looking at (near, whatever) his not-dad like he’s a tasty eucalyptus leaf.), so Foggy just sighs, waving dear Antonin off. 

“Thanks, but I’m good,” he says. He pauses then lifts his glass slightly. “I will be soon, anyways.”

They both laugh out of social obligation, and Antonin straightens up. He knocks on the counter a couple of times as he starts to turn around.

“Let me know when you want a refill!” he says.

And then Foggy’s left to sip mediocre beer and contemplate why his life’s so shitty.

Matt’s fucking blind, so it doesn’t matter that Foggy is completely glaring at him and his creepy not-dad. And maybe Matt’s super-senses do extend to spiritual eye lasers, or maybe it’s just the fact that Foggy’s regressed to rhythmically chanting Matt’s name under his breath.

Whatever it is, Matt definitely probably catches on to Foggy’s presence because he ‘looks’ towards Foggy for a second or two. And Foggy’s not sure if he feels more victorious or sad that Matt’s cheeks color that specific shade of red that means he’s embarrassed. Distinct from the shade of red he turns when drunk, which _ Foggy _ knows because _ Foggy _ is Matt’s best friend. Not this loser old man.

But okay, Matt’s an adult man. He’s completely free to make his own choices regarding his sexual life. Great, now Foggy’s blatantly gagging again.

And then: tragedy. Devastation. Perhaps one of the worst possible outcomes of this night.

Apparently a 2-4 second time-frame of Matt looking away is too long for Creepy McCreeperson because he. Puts a Hand. To Matt’s Chiseled and perfect Jaw. And he turns his face back towards him and then _ kisses _ him. On the _ lips _. And Matt kisses him back. 

All of this for one beer that isn’t even good really.

A startled noise is forced out of Foggy’s throat, and he looks pointedly away, staring at the quite interesting logo carved into his beer glass. He can feel his own face coloring bright red even though he has absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. 

He chugs the rest of his beer.

And at least through this all, his buddy Antonin’s got his back. Good ol’ Antonin sets aside the glasses he’s polishing almost the second Foggy’s empty glass taps the counter.

Foggy nods at Anty’s suggestion of another glass then tacks on, “Shot of tequila too, please.”

Antonin gives him a sympathetic look as he sets to grab Foggy’s drinks, and it feels like the people who told Foggy ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ at his grandma’s funeral back in high school.

Rest in peace, Grandma Nelson.

He downs the shot of tequila in her honor, dutifully only grimacing a little. Blegh, tequila. He orders another.

It’s not like he set out to get hammered tonight, but hey, plans change. 

And so he ends up, thousand-yard stare into his beer glass like a hardened vet wtih ‘nam flashbacks, heart undoubtedly reaching two-trillion beats-per-minute, both hands curved around his glass like it’s cocoa on a cold winter day.

He has to emotionally prepare for the second shot, so he just sits there for a minute, blinking at his beer as though the foam pattern on top could paint a picture of what and why and—

Ugh, god. He downs the second shot because he can’t look, he refuses to look, but Foggy swears he can hear phantom make-out sounds from Matt’s part of the bar. Tequila, disgusting. Repulsive. If he has to see McCreeperson put his lips on Matt again, Foggy _ will _ throw up, _ don’t _ look, Foggy. _ Don’t _—

He looks.

“Christ on earth,” he says on an exhale. His shoulders untense from where he’s scrunched them up because, okay, Jesus is merciful, Matt and his not-dad are canoodling, yes, but their faces are a solid few inches apart, to Foggy gracefully learns how to breathe again.

He looks up to the ceiling, and maybe that counts as prayer enough. He relaxes back—as much as one can on a bar stool, anyways—and takes some small sips of hsi beer.

“Matt,” he says under his breath, despite the fact that it’s a bar and nobody could care less about somebody supposedly talking to himself. “God. Why?”

Honestly, it’s somewhat insulting. And yeah, that’s probably uber unfair and creepy to say, but wow! Matt really would rather swap spit with an old geezer from a shithole bar than with his partner. Law partner, whatever.

And okay, so Foggy hasn’t ‘shot his shot’ or whatever the new, hip phrase is per say, but really, Matt seems pretty flirty over there and Foggy is open and available and also Matt’s best friend. 

Like, come on! Gray. Hair! Foggy’s hair is luscious. Foggy uses shampoo _ and _ conditioner. This old guy probably uses some 2-in-1 bull thinking that shit actually works.

But, hey. Maybe Matt’s just into dandruff.

The point is that maybe Foggy’s a little offended. If Matt’s this desperate for some action, certainly he knows that he could come to Foggy, right? Like. What’s a little blowjob between friends, right? 

Foggy sips at his beer, looking away from Matt and his not-dad. He pulls out his phone, casually pretending to check the time, then proceeds to choke on his next beer sip.

Not-dad. Oh...Matt, no.

Foggy’s eyes flash back over to where Matt’s snuggling up to his not-dad, sipping on some fruity drink. Probably whispering some sweet-nothings only they can hear.

Oh, it’s so gross. And even worse when Foggy’s brain comes up with the thought that _ what if this is some kind of...thing? _ Because Matt’s mom was never around and then his dad died, then Stick was an asshole. And Foggy doesn’t want to say it—he really doesn’t want to even consider it—but _ daddy issues _ his brain so unhelpfully supplies, and wow damn if the shoe doesn’t fit!

But...ugh, Matt has a list of issues twelve miles-long, and Santa’s checked it twice: this one’s not on there.

Foggy’s eyebrows come together, and he takes a very smart and thoughtful sip of his beer. He shifts on his seat while he considers the facts. 

Right, the facts.

He casts out a mental fishing line to reel his thoughts back in and even adjusts the collar of his shirt to look the part. The facts, perfect. 

Foggy’s known Matt for going on eight years—since law school—and he’s known Matt’s bi for seven of those. 

Foggy’s always been open about his own sexuality (_ “You said that you’re...pansexual?” “Yup!” Foggy responded tightly, with faux-cheeriness. “I go all ways…” Because, not to be religion-phobic, but Matt was Catholic. “That won’t be an issue, right?” Foggy had experienced and seen enough to take a little caution. Matt was quiet for a second before he said, “No. No, of course not.” And Foggy felt the tension drain right out of him like boiling water from a perfectly-floppy bundle of noodles. “Well. Good. I think this’ll work out just fine, then.” _) and while Matt tends to hide even the most basic facts about himself, Foggy likes to think he gets him. At least a little bit. 

So, daddy issues? Now, of all times? Foggy’s seen Matt’s dating habits.

And, okay, those habits might not be ‘normal’ or ‘healthy’, what with the whole ‘longest relationship was three months’ thing, but at the very least, Matt has always dated people his age. Logically speaking, if Matt’s father-figure issues were to crop up in a...sexual way they would’ve already, right? Back in college when literally everybody was experimenting.

Right. So it can’t be that—or, well, it probably isn’t.

Foggy nods to himself then takes another smart sip of his beer. He lets out a breath, feeling like he dodged a knife or bullet, or whatever other scary stuff Daredevil faces on a nightly basis. Throwing stars. Whatever.

He blinks a few times, because he’s getting old (he reluctantly admits) and he can already feel the tequila starting to hit. At risk of sounding like an alcoholic, he’ll admit that just knowing he’s on his way to drunk makes him feel better.

It’s like a placebo type of thing. Knowing that the alcohol will hit any minute makes him feel drunker than he actually is. Time for some math.

So—Christ, Foggy hasn’t even thought about math since undergrad...and even then, he really only passed by the skin of his teeth. But fuck it, he’s feeling confident!—let’s have x represent whatever the fuck Matt thinks he’s doing.

So Matt + fruity drink + purple shirt + koala activities = x

So, what? Subtract some shit, right?

Start with Matt + fruity drink.

Wait a second, Foggy knows this one. Play the reel!

In the theater of Foggy’s brain, a peppy rag-time piano riff plays, and a black-and-white reel counts it down.

Blip. Blip. Blip.

“Matt!” Foggy said, walking into the dorm about three years-ago. It was their second year of law school, and things really felt slowed down compared to year one.

Of course, that’s not to mean that Matt’d slowed down at all. No, of course not.

Matt’d been working at 200% since day one (the guy still took notes on his syllabi, for gosh sake), and while Foggy’d hoped that the summer off would give him a chance to unwind, it was looking like that...was not the case. To say the least.

“Hmm, what’s up, Foggy?” Matt asked. His fingers didn’t stop moving over the book in his lap, but he did tilt his head up to show he was listening.

“You,” Foggy said, with the regality and authority of an emperor, “are taking me to Josie’s. Tonight. Right now, actually.”

Matt pulled his left hand from the book, leaving the right one in place to save his spot. He didn’t even respond to Foggy’s demand verbally; he just gestured to the book with his one hand.

When Foggy didn’t respond, pretending not to see, Matt cracked a grin, saying, “No. I’m reading.”

Foggy dropped the act, hands on his head as he said: “Ugh, that’s so boring!” Despite the accuracy of that statement, Matt’s right hand started moving again. “Up-up! Cut that out! Still that finger, mister.”

There was no way Matt was still understanding the text, considering the wheezing laughter coming from his mouth, but he still kept up the act.

“Matt, really, though,” Foggy said after a couple of moments.

“For realios?” Matt says, mocking something Foggy said one time. Okay, ten times.

“Yes, for realios,” Foggy said. “You’ve been working all day.”

Matt raised an eyebrow, turning the page then setting the book to the side. A good sign. Foggy felt a little anticipation build.

“You wouldn’t know either way,” Matt argued. “You left at nine and didn’t get back until now.”

Aha!

“But how would you know if you weren’t here the entire time?!” Foggy said, pointing.

“I didn’t; you just confirmed it,” Matt said, face smug. Whether he actually was playing the long game or was just covering his slip up, Foggy couldn’t tell at the time. In post, though? That was definitely a cover.

“Ugh,” Foggy said. He could argue that he actually never confirmed nor denied Matt’s statement, but: “Whatever. Look, I leave and you’re studying and I come back and you’re studying. You know how that looks. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” Matt said. “I didn’t study the entire time you were gone.”

With Matt, that probably meant some bullshit—like that he got up to use the bathroom or something.

“Did you study for most of it?” Foggy asked.

Matt hesitated for a second, and that’s all the answer Foggy needed to hear.

“Knew it!” he said, ignoring Matt’s ‘Hey, I never said anything!’ “You and me, Matty. Josie’s doing half-off mixed-drinks today.”

For a second, Matt looked actually hopeful. But he shook his head, tilting it down towards his book. “I shouldn’t,” he said, hand creeping over to it. “I promised myself I’d finish this chapter by tonight.”

“So we won’t stay out all night!” Foggy said. “I’ll have you back before you turn into a pumpkin at ten.”

“I’m not sure that’s how the story goes,” Matt said, smirking. But then he read over the page number he was on and slapped the book closed. “But alright. Let’s do this.”

“Yes!” Foggy fist-pumped, which—in post, Foggy has to laugh over how Matt managed to pretend not to ‘see’ that one.

Matt coughed then turned away to pull his shoes out from under the bed.

At the time, he still wore converse everywhere, so it was his plain, black pair with white laces. Somehow, he managed to keep the laces really close to pure-white despite how long Foggy knew he’d had them for.

“Do I look okay?” Matt asked gesturing over himself as he grabbed his cane from beside his bed.

“Yeah, you look good,” Foggy said then proceeded to internally face-palm. Then to save, he added: “Fine. Acceptable. Okay, let’s go!”

Matt huffed a laugh but said, “Vamonos!” and linked their arms together.

And so they ended up, like so many nights before, bounding into Josie’s with twin-grins on their faces. 

“I can not believe you actually said it!” Matt was saying. “How—“ he was forced to pause, laughter bubbling up and mangling his words. “How did she even respond?”

Honestly, Foggy’s still proud of that one. The joke was worth it, now matter the humiliation it caused him.

“She was speechless at first,” Foggy said. They pulled up to the bar, and Matt released his arm to tap the chair in front of him. 

They both sat down and were greeted by Josie, who gave them a ‘gimme a minute’-finger raise. 

“But then I really thought she was going to kill me,” Foggy finished.

“I’m surprised she didn’t,” Matt responded.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Well, obviously it’s a good kind of surprise.”

“Matt, you hate surprises.”

Matt laughed at that. “Okay, true in most cases.”

More like virtually all. He all but threatened Foggy when his birthday first came around. 

“Whatever. I’ll let it go this time,” Foggy said. Then he turned to look just 90-degrees to his left, and: “Holy shit!” he whisper-shouts. 

Matt straightened up then, surprised. “What?” he whispered back, ‘looking’ around the room. 

“Don’t look now,” Foggy said. Matt huffed a laugh. “But the girl to our left is drinking the most beautiful drink I’ve seen in my life. I want one.”

“Explain,” Matt said, relaxing back. Now that Foggy thinks about it, he probably thought there was a ninja around or some such shit. 

Foggy stealth stole another glance, mouth watering a little just looking at it.

“First of all, it’s fruity as fuck—oh, same,” Foggy said, and Matt barked out a laugh. “I’m seeing cherries, orange slices—the whole shebang. It’s like an orangey-pink color.”

“Sounds pretty fancy,” Matt said. 

Foggy was expecting the idea to get shot down. Matt was usually all about the harsh, manly drinks: crown royal and ginger ale or gin and coke. So imagine the surprise on Foggy’s face when Matt smiled and said: “Let’s try it.”

“Yes!” Foggy cheered, managing, though only barely to hold in the fist-pump this time. 

At that point, Josie came over to take their order and made up two of ‘Whatever that kind lady over there ordered.’

Foggy and Matt took simultaneous sips of their drinks, and Foggy watched as Matt’s eyes widened behind his glasses. 

“Oh, my,” he said. Those nun-phrases still make Foggy laugh when Matt busts them out. 

“Dude, what the fuck,” Foggy said, raising his glass. “Women have been hiding these from us all along!”

“I’m pretty sure nobody was hiding anything, Foggy,” Matt said. Then he took another sip and said, “But wow, really, where have these been all this time?”

“...You want another?” Foggy asked. 

“Yes. Yes I would.”

Things went downhill real fast.

When Foggy woke up the next day, Matt was groaning, half on his bed and half on the floor. 

“Never again, Foggy,” he said, voice rasping. 

“Aw, never?” Foggy asked, eyes squinted and head pounding. “But wasn’t it worth it?”

“Never.”

End of reel. 

Foggy ‘huh’s, tilting his head and sipping slowly at his beer. For a week or so, he really thought Matt was just being dramatic, but in all the years since, Matt really never has had another fruity drink. Even just the mention seems to make him go comically green.

He looks back over to see Matt sip his drink, still facing Mr. Grody Old Man. 

So we have a couple of possibilities here: either Matt finally got over his fear of delicious mixed drinks or...well. Let’s finish the math problem first. 

We get the fruity drink part. But what’s with the purple shirt, man?

Foggy squints to see it better, and it is _ bad _. Like—this is no ordinary purple shirt. No, this something else. This is the type of shirt Foggy’s dad wore to go bowling back in the 80s. This is the type of shirt some man’s wife found in the back of the closet and made him get rid of. 

But somehow, some _ way _ , Matt and his Latino hotness has managed to pull it off not just _ well _ but perfectly—if he was going for a man-whore-type of look.

That sounded shitty. Look, Foggy’s not trying to be mean, but he’ll call it as he sees it.

And there’s no way Matt doesn’t know it. To say the least, this is not his go-to look. 

Believe him, it is not a bad look. It’s just weird. Seeing it on Matty. In this context. 

And that leads us to the final piece in this awful equation: koala activities. 

Matt is not clingy, okay? As previously mentioned, Foggy knows Matt, and what Foggy knows about Matt is that he will mope and sulk and pout, but no matter how upset he is he will not ask for the hug he needs. 

So to bring us back to the crossroads we arrived at earlier? Either this is Matt’s twin brother Patt or Matt is officially trying too hard.

And that second possibility is really, really scary. 

Foggy waves down Antonin, asking for his tab to be closed out. He’s shaking in anticipation, not sure what he’s going to say, just that he will say it. 

He looks up, seeing Matt grabbing onto his old man suitor’s tie, then looks back down, shaking his head. Is it about money? They haven’t had many paying clients lately, but certainly it hasn’t been that bad. 

Or—god, Foggy doesn’t want to think that Matt’s self-esteem could be that bad. It’s not. Is it?

He looks back up, and—

“Shit.”

He pulls some bills out of his pocket, pushing them across the table and scribbles a quarter-assed version of his signature on the receipt.

“Bye, have a good one,” he calls over his shoulder, tripping over his own feet as he moves to the door.

How the hell did they get out of here so fast?

He pushes out the door, coughing as the cold winter air immediately freezes his lungs. He looks both ways but doesn’t see them anywhere. Shit. 

Foggy will not let Matt have sex with this man. Foggy just knows that he’ll regret it. 

“Matt,” he growls under his breath then chooses to go right. “Cmon, buddy. We’ll go home, play Scrabble—“

He jerks to a stop between two buildings, where he hears a coat rustling around. He looks and—UGH. Ew.

They’re totally making out. Worse, while Matt’s hands are seeking out warmth, like any normal person would, Geezer is totally taking the opportunity to cop a feel. 

“Stop! I object!” Foggy says, skidding on some ice into the alley. 

“What the—“ the man says, pulling back from where he’s trapped Matt.

“Matt,” Foggy says, “Don’t do this, bro.”

“Fo—“

“Matthew,” Oldie-McGee says, “Who is this?”

“This is my friend, Foggy,” Matt says, eyes wide and panting. Oh, ew. 

“Yes, I’m his best friend and business-partner,” Foggy says, straightening his coat. “And we’re going. Matt, get your cane.”

“Excuse me,” Geezer says, but Matt, oh thank god and Jesus for Matt, dutifully picks his cane up from where it’s rested against the brick wall. 

“I should go. Thank you for your time, Mr. Johansson,” Matt says, turned to Geezer. “I had a very interesting night.”

Geezer (yeah, that’s looking like the nickname we’re gonna roll with from here) looks pissed, like a kid driving past a toy store, but he doesn’t stop Matt from walking away with Foggy.

“Keep your cool,” Matt says as they walk down the road towards Foggy’s apartment. It’s a good thing he said that, because Foggy really feels like he’s about to boil over. 

A few blocks later, Foggy looks over his shoulder, and Matt says:

“He’s gone. I need you to do me a favor.”

Forget about this night? Yeah, no. They’re about to seriously talk, get through whatever Matt thinks is—

“I need you to help me go through this,” Matt says, holding not-his-wallet up. 

What.

“What?”

Matt cracks a smile then, one sugary and sweet and made of poison. 

“That man is part of a big crime family in the southern end of the city,” Matt says. Again: what? Foggy looks over his shoulder again, eyes wide. “I bugged him...then I snagged his wallet. See if there’s anything of use in there.”

Foggy unclasps it and looks in. He’s forced to push past an ungodly amount of money to see a small scrap of paper. 

A small scrap of paper with an address. 

Ohhhh. 

“Yeah,” Foggy says, swallowing. “We’ve got an address.”

“Oh, perfect!” Matt says, still grinning. He tilts his head back, groaning out: “Oh, thank God that worked. I don’t know what I would’ve done if it hadn’t.”

After this roller coaster of a night, Foggy doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. Just that whatever it is, he is _ really _ feeling it. 

“What?” he says. “Daredevil doesn’t beat people up anymore? Now he—Matt, what the hell?”

Matt cringes, face red. “Yeah, not my first choice,” he says. “Even worse that you had to see it. What about on your end?” He turns to face Foggy when he asks: “For all you knew that was some kind of one-night stand. Why jump in?”

‘Because I love you?’

“I just couldn’t let you make that mistake,” Foggy says, like the coward he's always been. “You know, as your best friend and wingman.”

Matt laughs, saying, “Don’t worry, it wouldn’t have gone that far. But...thanks. I’m glad that you’re my friend.”

Right. His friend. 

Oh, Matt. 

"I'm glad we're friends, too," Foggy says. 

Matt's face goes funny then, and he tilts his head and he turns to Foggy. "You...your heart did something funny there. Are you...?"

"Hey," Foggy interrupts, bumping Matt's shoulder, and he just knows that his heart-rate is speeding up. "Do you have time tonight? Maybe a quick game of scrabble?"

Matt snorts. "Right, a 'quick' game of scrabble," he says. True. They both take far too long when playing Scrabble. "But...yeah, I should have time. Thanks, Foggy."

He bumps Foggy's shoulder back. 

"No problem. Buddy."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure there's no canonical iteration of Matt that's Latino. But eh, why not? Also, what's up with this unresolved romantic plotline? Why am I like this?


End file.
